The Sacred Band a-3

by David Anthony Durham

  When Dukish resumed his seat, he said they were ready to talk about a treaty.

  Lethel tented his fingers sagely. “I am here to extend a hand of friendship to”-he almost said you slaves, but recalled the name he had been instructed to use with them-“the Anet people, and to all the People of Ushen Brae. But I must know something before we can proceed any further. As I’m sure you know, somebody destroyed a facility on Lithram Len. I cannot say what foolishness drove them, but I can say that our displeasure over this is beyond measure. That’s no way to begin a new partnership. Were you responsible?”

  By Dukish’s emphatic response it was clear that he was not. “Who was?”

  “I know not.”

  Dukish glanced around behind him, seeking confirmation of his ignorance from his peers. They gave it.

  “Have you heard anything about survivors from the group that Sire Neen brought to meet the Auldek? Any Acacians?”

  “One leagueman,” Dukish said. “That’s all.”

  “That’s not possible. We accounted for all our leaguemen. Do you mean a soldier?”

  Dukish laughed. “Not this one. He was no soldier. This one was a weakling. Devoth imprisoned him. Took him away.”

  “And there were no others?”

  “No.”

  Lethel eased the tension of this line of questioning out of his fingers. It was silly, really, but he could not help thinking of Dariel Akaran. If the prince had some how survived and managed to get up to his old tricks… Unlikely, though. Highly unlikely. “One, you will find the criminal and deliver him-or them-to me,” Lethel said. “That you must do. And, two, there can be no more destruction of Lothan Aklun artifacts. They are all henceforth league possessions. Any act against them is an act against us.”

  “That thing was evil,” a voice from Dukish’s entourage said.

  “Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was a device that the Lothan Aklun turned to evil. Is a knife evil because it can kill a man? No, it can also do a thousand useful things. We of the league have scholars among us, physicians and men of learning. It may be that for every way the Lothan Aklun used their tools to make your lives misery we could use them for good. This is not negotiable. You will leave such artifacts to us. Indeed, you will alert us to any that we have yet to discover.”

  “The Anet do not seek these Lothan Aklun things,” Dukish said. “We have no interest in them. I cannot speak for the other clans, but you have my faith on this. Now, let me have your faith. Your man, the one who spoke to us before you, said you could provide us with settlers, with women who are fertile and can breed. Is that so?”

  That’s easily enough done, Lethel thought. We have whole breeding islands for just that purpose. “That is within our capacity.”

  “Have I your faith, then?”

  Lethel did not correct the man’s usage of the word. “In all things, sir. It will take some time, but it can be done. In addition to the barrier isles, we would need to base some operations here in Avina. If we are truly to-”

  “He lies!”

  The shout was loud, sharp enough to cause Sire Lethel to start. He craned around, looking for the source, for it was not among the two groups in the courtyard.

  “Leagueman, he is lying!”

  “Who speaks?” the gray-faced woman said. “Show yourself.”

  The voice said, “Dukish does not speak for the Free People.”

  “Who does, then?” Lethel asked.

  “Promise me that your soldiers will not shoot us.”

  “Give us no reason and we won’t.”

  “I have your faith, then?”

  Lethel rolled his eyes. “Certainly.”

  A woman rose to standing on the bridge Lethel’s party had passed under to enter the courtyard. Several others to either side and a few more on roofs nearby also rose or stepped from behind the stones that had hidden them. They did not appear to be armed, except for knives that were as yet sheathed. Dukish barked something at the woman in Auldek, gesturing profanely as he did so. The woman gave it back. Other Anet added their voices, and for a moment it seemed the entire meeting would erupt into chaos.

  The Ishtat reacted. They enveloped Lethel within a bristling wedge of bodies. They pressed so tight against him that as they pulled him back he was not sure if his feet touched the ground, or if they lifted him bodily. The bowmen readied their weapons-aiming both at the Anet and at the newcomers-and the captain shouted the clanspeople to stillness.

  Lethel sighed. The difficulties of dealing with primitives. One never knew where the power resided. Always upstarts and bickering to contend with. Though in this case, he doubted it truly rested with this woman. Her face was pale blue, and she wore a headdress that sprang up from her hairline. Did she hope to pass that off as a crown? She was slim, though, limber looking, just Lethel’s type, actually, except for the… feathers. That’s what they were. Not a headdress exactly, but plumes of feathers instead of hair. These people!

  The woman said, “We don’t come to fight you-just to tell you the truth before you err. Dukish does not speak for us, for those who were once quota and are now free citizens of a new nation.”

  The Anet raged at this, and it took the Ishtat a moment to quiet them.

  “Do you, then, speak for these people?”

  Dukish tried to say something, but the Ishtat captain punched him in the jaw. It was a quick jab, just a warning, as was the way he drew his short sword from its scabbard for Dukish to see. A tense moment, but it went no further. Lethel repeated his question.

  “For the moment I do,” the woman answered.

  “And what’s your name, then?”

  “Skylene.”

  “Ah,” Lethel said, fully in control of his composure once more, “well, Skylene, this news surprises me. I found Dukish to be quite convincing. You can’t say that he does not control a considerable portion of the city. That he does not speak for many. I’ve seen the evidence of it with my own eyes. Don’t ask me to disbelieve them. Perhaps you should come down from there and talk with me here.”

  “I will speak from here.”

  “That’s hardly the way to hold council. Really, you-”

  “Leagueman. I cannot hold council with you. I simply want you to know that Dukish does not speak for the People.”

  “Who does, then?”

  “Our Council of Elders. Yoen. Mor. There are many who speak faith. They are away, gathering the People in the Westlands to return here. They will come soon. The Anet have just grabbed for power in their absence. Careful, leagueman, some among the Kulish Kra and the Lvin scheme to do the same. Do not make any pacts with them. They will not be valid. The council speaks for all the People, not just for one clan or another. Dukish is a fool who would make chaos out of what could be peace. Don’t listen to him!”

  Lethel wished he could express on his face the full measure of his displeasure at being given commands. He did not. He showed nothing but troubled interest. “Most disturbing to hear this. Come down and let’s-”

  “Ushen Brae is for the People. You have no place here. Nor can you divide us. We are stronger together and we will hold.”

  “Ah,” Lethel said. He made a face as if he had burped up an unpleasant taste. Holding up the palm of his hand, he asked for a moment to consider a response. On the one hand, a council of elders who speak for all the people, high ideals, a loathing for the league, grandiose notions of this as a free land. On the other hand, several fool clans who would fracture Ushen Brae into small powers squabbling among themselves, all wanting nothing more than to buy league wares. It was an easy decision to make.

  Glancing at his Ishtat captain, Lethel said, “Shoot the bird.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Shirtless and sweating, Melio faced the massive warrior. His Marah sword sliced the air. He backed and parried. The warrior stepped toward him on legs like tree trunks, his blade hissing in the air with each massive swing. Several times Melio dodged to the right or left as his foe’s sword struck the
frozen ground, sending up splinters of ice. He felt the giant’s anger growing, possessing him, driving him to more and more furious attacks. He bellowed and swung his blade around. Melio ducked and spun and leaped with a swirling aerial attack of his own. It would have been a wonderful move. He would have soon followed it with a head-hewing attack.

  Except that the timing of his landing was off. The ground moved beneath him in such a way that he landed on the edge of his foot. His ankle twisted and he yanked it into the air, hopping on the other leg, cursing. His sword hung limp, and his foe, for that matter, went forgotten. Forgetting the slickness of the surface on which he stood, Melio’s good foot suddenly took off in a horizontal direction, bringing the rest of his body crashing down a moment later.

  “What, exactly, was all that about?”

  The voice was Geena’s. She sat suspended from the rigging of the league clipper, the Slipfin. She had one leg wrapped around the rope ladder. That was all she needed to feel secure, even though the vessel rose and fell at a rapid, wind-whipped clip. As Melio had fought his battle, she had munched dates and spit the pits out over the water. Sometimes upright, sometimes hanging upside down, she had watched the entire scene with barely contained mirth. It had taken Melio an extra measure of focus to block her out.

  He lay prone for a moment, as if he had decided to make a close inspection of the deck planks. Like everything else on the outside of the vessel, the deck was coated in white skin, slicker for it. It was not the first time Melio had found himself studying it. Things had gotten a bit better since Kartholome had found a supply of gripping deck socks, but even these only seemed to work when he remembered that he was wearing them.

  “A revised version of the Eighth Form,” he said, pushing up. “The Eighth Form is the combat routine that reenacts Gerimus’s battle with the guards of Tulluck’s Hold, when he fought the giants that guarded the-”

  “Who’s Gerimus?”

  “You don’t know who Gerimus was?”

  “Not everyone sucks at the tit of Acacian lore!” Kartholome called, though from where was not immediately obvious.

  “A king from the Second Candovian Kingdom.” When this did not seem to register with her, Melio wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt, which he had taken off before he began. It was actually quite chilly, but he liked the feel of air on his skin when he trained. They were eighteen days out of Bleem, heading west with a slight edge toward the south. Clytus made that small adjustment for his own reasons, which he did not share. Around them stretched the Gray Slopes. As far as the eye could see, waves, sky. It was bleak, the sky a lighter version of the water it hung over. He took a swig from his waterskin, feeling her eyes on him all the while.

  Geena flipped upside down again. Her shirt began to fall with gravity, but she pinned it to her abdomen. “Where’s Tulluck’s Hold?”

  “It’s…” Melio set the waterskin’s spout in his mouth again, but pulled it away without drinking. “I don’t know, really. Candovia, I believe.”

  Geena unwrapped her leg and climbed down the ladder, managing to do so without actually putting her hands or feet on the rungs very often. He had seen her do that before, but could not for the life of him figure out the technique. She landed on one of the horizontal stacks of harpoons they had bought at Bleem. Balanced at the topmost of them, Geena walked along it. “You’re guessing? You were there, weren’t you?”

  “It was a long time ago,” Melio said. “There’s not a Tulluck’s Hold anymore.” She just looked at him, eyes expectant. “I mean a really long time ago. Before my time.”

  “And yet you remember every move this Gerimus made?”

  “Anyway, that’s only part of it. What I was doing was the revision created by Leeka Alain, an officer of the Northern Guard. It’s partly the traditional Form and partly the way he modified it when he killed the first Numrek.” Geena began to speak, but Melio carried on. “And this Leeka I actually knew. He detailed the battle, and I even worked some of it through with him. So…” He toasted her with the skin and took a drink, not sure he had won the point but keeping up appearances.

  Clytus climbed down from the bridge. “Sharratt, enough playing with your sword,” he said. “On to your evening round of duties. Might as well start.”

  Melio grabbed for his shirt.

  “Oh, don’t do that!” Geena tossed a date pit at him.

  “Geena,” Clytus said, a warning in it.

  “What? I just like to watch. Melio Sharratt, my private performer.”

  “Performance over,” Clytus said. “Up to the nest, girl, or I’ll get the strap out.”

  “Don’t you wish?” She scaled the swaying ladder effortlessly.

  Clytus stood beside Melio. The two of them watched her ascend and then tip herself into the tiny basket of the crow’s nest. “How old is she?” Melio asked, once he was confident Geena was well out of talking earshot.

  “Acts just like a girl, doesn’t she? You’d think she was sixteen and had never seen an obstacle she couldn’t leap. She’s always been like that, all thirtysome years I’ve known her. Giver bless her.” The brigand set somber eyes on Melio. “It’s not true, though. She’s seen hard times, especially when she was a girl. She likes you, but don’t get the wrong idea. She’d not roll with you. It’s the dance she likes; not the wrestling.”

  “I… I never thought-”

  “You know why? In your case, it’s because of Mena. For a certain type of woman, the princess is… well, a person to aspire to. Like a hero if she were a man. You understand me?”

  Melio thought a moment and then said, “Yes, I do. I know the feeling. About Geena, though, I wouldn’t have tried anything.”

  “Good,” Clytus said. “She’d go off you in a minute if she thought you would. You’re a fine lad, but if you slighted Mena she’d likely introduce your stiffy to a blood eel’s teeth. She’s done it before.” Before Melio could configure his face in response to this, Clytus slapped his shoulder. “Now, to chores. This ship runs clean in many ways I’ve not figured out yet, but there’s still work to do.”

  As he always did, Melio went to his chores without complaint. Since leaving Tivol he had learned more than he had ever wished to about nautical matters. Four was not nearly enough to crew a vessel like the Slipfin, but Clytus and Geena had enough brigand tricks up their sleeves to make hard things easier, to finesse the impossible into only improbable. He had to respect them for it, and do his part.

  If these were to be his last days, Melio could not complain that they were being spent poorly. He had seen wonders at sea before. In the time before he found Mena on the docks of Ruinat, he had worked for a feeble living among the Floating Merchants. The Inner Sea was beautiful, but its teeming life had not prepared him for the things he saw riding the Gray Slopes.

  O ne afternoon, a week from land, Geena had shouted from high in the rigging. He did not catch what she said, except that it was an alarm. Melio turned. He saw the movement low on the horizon. He could not make sense of it at first. Low clouds? A storm brewing? Neither. It came on fast, with a speed and swarming quality that set it apart from some phenomenon of the weather. But it did not ride the water like a fleet of boats, nor was it in the water, as aquatic life should be. It was above the surface, skimming the crests of the waves.

  Geena slid down the rope at a speed akin to just plain falling. She hit the deck and sprang up with purpose.

  “What is that?” Melio shouted.

  “Dinner or death,” she said as she passed him. She flipped open one of the wooden deck crates and hit him in the chest with a wad of netting. She bolted away, climbed the stairs to the bridge, and disappeared inside.

  “Or make it both.” Kartholome slid up to them with an uncanny grace on the skin, looking like a performer skating on ice. “Dinner and death.” He grabbed one of the nets and careened away.

  Standing where Geena instructed him to, netting loose in his fingers, Melio stared at the rocking view of a seething sea atop which a gr
eat mass of something approached. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. They were innumerable. Large enough to see at a distance. They flew, but something told him they were not birds. There were no birds out here. Not so far from land. Not low-flying birds like that.

  Geena, back again, grabbed him by the elbow. “Don’t get skewered, love. Stay near the cabin door.”

  It was not until they were upon them that Melio understood what they were: a massive flock of flying fish, with flipper wings so wide and nimble that individuals wheeled like starlings within a vast, unstoppable torrent of momentum. The front wall of them broke over the ship. Motion engulfed them: that of the sailing ship and of the fish flying across it. Sound that textured the air with scales. A sea-deep stench of salt and life and moisture splattered Melio’s face. The air became liquid enough to swim in.

  Of course! Melio thought. That’s how they fly. They swim the air!

  The fish careened over the deck. They slipped between the sails. Most flew with amazing precision, even snapping their wings against their sides to cut through narrow gaps. Their bodies were slim splinters, thick around as a man’s leg and, fins included, a little longer. They were as dangerous in flight as javelins, striped down the side with one slash of violet. One sliced Kartholome’s shoulder through his shirt, several smashed so hard against structures on the boat that they skidded across the deck, broken. A hundred, it seemed, tried to cut strands of Melio’s curly hair as they passed.

  Melio would never forget the mad way he and Kartholome and Geena dashed around on deck, fishing. They tossed nets up over their heads, and then fell to the deck, clutching the ropes as the fish’s force pulled them. He would never forget that, try as he might, he could not say he saw even one of them jump from the water or fall into it. They just flew. Nor would he forget the taste of them afterward, when the crew gathered snug in the cabin, getting stupid on ale. Roasted over an open flame, the fish needed nothing but salt to flavor them. “Like tuna,” he declared, and Geena had added, “If tunas could fly and were a white fish that tasted like sea air after a storm on an island of lemon trees.”